The static hum dies to a whisper. His hands, which moments ago tore her clothes, now frame her hips with a reverence that steals her breath. He looks up, and the centuries of watchfulness in his storm-grey eyes are fractured by a raw, human ache. "The cure is a lie," he rasps, his voice stripped bare. "I am the sickness. And you are the only peace I've known in a thousand years."
Lena’s breath hitches. The clinical part of her mind—the part that diagnoses, that categorizes—whispers that this is a breakthrough. A confession. But her body, still humming from his mouth on her breast, knows it as a surrender. Her own. His thumb strokes the jut of her hip bone, a touch so gentle it burns worse than the static ever did. "Then I'm sick too," she whispers. The words feel torn from a place deeper than trauma, a truth she’s spent a lifetime medicating into silence. "I don't want your cure. I want your chaos."
Riven’s eyes close. A shudder runs through him, a seismic shift in the predator pinned against her desk. When he opens them again, the raw ache is a wildfire. "You don't know what you're asking."
"I do." She brings her cold fingers to his jaw, tracing the hard line. His skin is fever-warm. "The man at my window. The others. You removed them. You made the world quiet." Her other hand finds his, the one splayed possessively on her hip, and she laces her fingers through his. A deliberate tether. "So give me the quiet. Give me the monster. Let me feel safe."
He moves then. Not with the brutal force she expects, but with a devastating slowness. He leans in, his forehead pressing against the hollow of her throat. His breath is hot on her skin. His lips brush the frantic pulse there, and she feels the wet heat of his tongue, a slow, claiming stroke. A low sound escapes him, half groan, half prayer. It vibrates through her bones.
He lifts her then, his hands sliding from her hips to cup the backs of her thighs, and he sets her onto the cold, chipped surface of the desk as if she’s something sacred and breakable. The movement is effortless, his strength absolute. Then he claims her mouth, not with the punishing force of before, but with a devastating, open-mouthed hunger that tastes like confession. His tongue slides against hers, a slow, deep exploration that makes her whimper into him, her cold fingers tangling in the shadow-dark fall of his hair.
His hands are everywhere. One cradles the back of her head, angling her for his kiss, while the other slides up her bare thigh, pushing the torn remnants of her skirt higher. His palm is searing hot against her skin, the calluses rough, and when his fingers brush the soaked lace of her underwear, they both freeze. A ragged breath tears from his chest. He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his storm-grey eyes holding hers with a ferocious intensity. “You’re dripping,” he rasps, the words a vibration against her lips.
Lena can only nod, her hips shifting involuntarily, seeking the pressure of his hand. The clinical part of her is gone, incinerated. All that’s left is the ache, the slick heat, the desperate need for the quiet only he can give. “Riven,” she gasps, his name a plea and a permission.
He hooks a finger in the lace and pulls, the fabric tearing with a soft, final sound. The cool air of the office hits her exposed skin, and then his touch is there, not inside her yet, but pressing against her, his thumb finding her clit with unerring accuracy. The contact is electric, a jolt that arches her spine. His eyes never leave hers as he begins to move his thumb in slow, torturous circles, the pad rough, the pressure perfect. “This,” he murmurs, his voice gravel and velvet. “This is the monster. The one that kills for you. The one that wants to ruin you.”
She’s trembling, her thighs falling wider open, every nerve ending screaming. The wet sound of his touch is obscene in the quiet room. Her own breathing is ragged, matching the rhythm he sets. She can feel the hard ridge of his erection pressed against her inner thigh, still confined by his pants, a promise of what comes next. “Yes,” she manages, the word shattered. “Ruin me. Make it quiet.”